


Michael in Seattle

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Boyfriend Material [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Deleted Scenes, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Missing Scene, Multi, Nipple Piercings, Oral Sex, Piercings, Threesome - M/M/M, Tongue Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-10 20:42:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12919872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: Bonus/"deleted"/"missing" scene: Sherlock and John's threesome with Michael the waiter, in Seattle.





	Michael in Seattle

**Author's Note:**

> (Written as part of Sherlock December Ficlets 2017 - Prompt 4 - "Winter Sports")

Michael, the server who wanted to share Sherlock’s “daddy,” was happily amenable to the suggestion the three get together, and even threw all sense of self-preservation to the wind and invited them to his place, irrespective of whether or not Sherlock and John might, in fact, be murderers.

“What do you guys do?” he asked, as the three found where they belonged for the preliminaries—beer in bottles, casual chat—in his little room. He lived in a converted church, one of several housemates, none of whom were in evidence as he greeted them and lead them up a winding staircase and through his door, which he locked behind them with a twist of the mechanism on the knob. A stained-glass window arched above the head of his bed—a mattress on the floor, and he’d gone to the trouble of pulling the bedding taut over it, probably smacked the pillows a bit to plump them up and arranged them in a pyramid-shaped pile. Sherlock took a plastic rolling desk chair, and John sat on the edge of the foot of the mattress with his legs extended to cross in front of him. Michael sat nearby, in the middle of the mattress with his legs folded.

Sherlock glanced at John. “We trawl restaurants in gay neighbourhoods for handsome, adventurous fellows like yourself,” he said archly, smiling to his best advantage.

“That’s not a job,” Michael protested, with a knowing expression. He dropped his hand backward through his hair, brushing back the overlong, dyed-red fringe.

John leaned back on one palm. “What do _you_ ‘do’?” he asked meaningfully. “What do you like to do?”

“Do you like to get your dick sucked?” Sherlock asked.

John gestured at Sherlock with the hand holding the beer bottle. “He’s very good,” he encouraged, punctuating it with a nod.

“Better than just good,” Sherlock corrected.

“Who doesn’t?” was Michael’s reply.

John’s voice dropped in pitch and volume. “Can I watch him suck yours?”

Michael set his bottle aside on the floor, well away from the edge of the mattress. John sipped once more from his own, then did the same, catching Sherlock’s half-smiling expression along the way. As he turned back around, Michael’s hand—fingers laden with heavy silver and black rings—slid onto his thigh, and Michael leaned in to kiss John’s neck, low enough to miss his several-day playoff stubble. “Would you like that?” he asked, whispery, genuinely curious.

“I’d like it very much,” John affirmed. He touched the side of Michael’s face. “Do you kiss?”

“Mm.”

“Sherlock?”

“Whatever you like, John.”

John licked his lips, drew Michael to him, kissed him, tucked a hand in beneath the hem of his t-shirt to feel the skin at the side of his waist.

After a few moments, Michael drew back and Sherlock growled, “C’mere, then.”

Soon enough Michael was bracing himself with one hand on the wall beside his desk, and Sherlock, spread-legged in the chair, leaned forward with one hand on his bare thigh above his lowered jeans and black cotton pants, the other wrapped around a sturdily straight, pointed pink prick he licked and sucked, swallowed deep. John’s own cock thrummed behind the placket of his trousers, watching Sherlock do that other thing he excelled at, from a fresh angle.

“You both look so hot,” John encouraged, and Sherlock hummed pleasure at the compliment, which drew a gasping curse from Michael. Sherlock switched from slow deep-throated swallowing to shallower sucking, his head bobbing mid-tempo as he went. He rocked his head from one side to the other, catching John’s gaze for a desperate moment that made John groan before Sherlock closed his eyes and drew back to swirl his tongue around the crown of Michael’s cock.

“You must come so hard when he sucks you off,” Michael muttered, leaning over Sherlock’s back to pet a path from his shoulder toward his hip.

“I do,” John replied, and he shifted back on the bed, arranged pillows behind his back. “Do you really want to share?” he asked, and Sherlock pulled off, looked up with a hungry smirk at Michael.

“I recommend it,” Sherlock encouraged. “His cock is huge, and gorgeous.”

Michael’s eyes widened and within a minute the three were shedding more of their clothes, Sherlock and Michael joining John on the mattress, the three touching each other’s newly bared skin, brushing fingertips over tightening nipples and caressing curving backsides.

“You guys are so fucking _hard_ ,” Michael marveled, running one hand over John’s shoulder and the other down Sherlock’s calf.

“We work out,” Sherlock grinned, and he and John exchanged an amused glance. “Have you got slick?” he asked, then added, “I’d hate to have to interrupt the flow of things later.” Michael produced a plastic pump-bottle from a pile of bachelor’s detritus near the bed and set it in reach.

John was down to his pants, and his cock was upright and stiff beneath. Sherlock gave him a stroke through the fabric, defining the shape of him with his long fingers. John sighed and Michael watched Sherlock’s hand showing off a hint of what lay beneath John’s skivvies, then leaned up to beg a kiss which John gave easily, more than gladly.

“His tongue’s pierced,” John reported, when they came up for air. Sherlock hummed approvingly, and went for the waistband of John’s pants, both hands maneuvering them down. John lifted his hips, Michael gave his own prick a couple of quick, light strokes, and in no time John was descended upon by two eager mouths, four searching hands, Sherlock’s barely-any chin and lip stubble, the cool hard bead riding along on Michael’s hot soft tongue, fingers, chests, teeth and lips and breath. . .

“Mmm. . .”

“Ahh. . .yes. . .mm. Mm. Mm.”

“Fuck!”

John put a hand on the back of each head, stroking messily through their hair, barely containing the bucking roll of his hips. One sucked the head of his cock while the other licked his bollocks. One dragged fingers through the hair trailing from the root of his prick all the way up to his navel while the other's fingers skimmed through the hair of his thigh. Two tongues slithered kisses down and then up his length, one from each side.

“Christ. . .Jeezus. . .” He lifted his head to watch them, had to insinuate his hand into the lovely confusion to squeeze off his speedily-approaching finish. “Wait. Wait. _That’s so fucking good._ Oh god, wait a minute.”

John panted out a scenario to finish all three of them, and they agreed, rearranging themselves with interruptions for stroking and groping, sloppy globs of slippery stuff smeared here and there, gasping, a kiss, a bone-rattling groan, even a little laughter—the three of them perhaps a bit giddy with breathlessness. All of it ended in a splendid result: Michael astride John’s thighs so John could wrap up both their cocks in his fists and pump them, Michael swaying into it, tweaking and pulling at the silver rings piercing his rosy-brown nipples; and Sherlock beside them kneeling upright with his knees against John’s left ribs, stroking himself to spill over the two of them in John’s hand.

John caught Sherlock’s eye and Sherlock bit his bottom lip, and John could see he was close, needy, so turned on, “Oh, fuck, _fuck!_. . .” John’s neck arched to bare his throat as he came, and Michael’s hands joined and replaced his own, streaking hot cum over John’s belly. Sherlock groaned, lay a steadying hand on John’s chest, and Michael urged him on, “Yeah, yeah. . .Yeah, _come_.”

The mess on John’s abdomen and chest was incredible, and the three huffed and hummed, stretching limbs and passing around a t-shirt Michael offered for use as a rag. Michael lay stretched out at John’s side, propped on his elbow, stroking the muscles of John’s chest and shoulders, and his biceps and forearms. Sherlock mirrored Michael along John’s other side, touching Michael’s chin and directing him down so John could kiss him.

“That was _so_ good,” Michael told them. “I’m glad you guys called.”

Sherlock and John shared a look. “Can we call you again sometime?” Sherlock asked, and John was taken a little aback, wondering what had happened to Sherlock’s one-and-done rule. But then again. John stroked his palm over the plump cheek of Michael’s arse.

He looked at Sherlock. “That’s a genius idea,” he credited.

Sherlock’s smiling reply: “You should expect no less.”


End file.
